Draconis
by Invader Miraza
Summary: 'Bowen couldn't breathe. That voice. He would know that voice anywhere-a deep, heavy timbre he never thought he would hear with his own ears again, in this life or the next.' A new evil, a dragon returned to help his truest friend.
1. Prologue

Dark. All dark, blinding, terrible dark.

The sky covered in a blackness so deep, it swallowed all comfort from the ever shining stars. It was if they never exisited there in all that somber night.

Heavy thunder shook the ground as if to cleave mountains in twain. Lightning struck the inky clouds, only to be followed by the relentless, terrifying rumble.

Rain pelted hard, every bead like needles across the skin. And still, they marched. A small, sinister brigade, trasping desperately through the muck and cold. Driven by the head of the their party, seemingly unbothered by the downpour. Her head held high, barely a pant upon her lips as she led them on, and on and on through the trees, over jagged rock and slipping gravel. Her men struggling at her heels. The youngest of them tumbled to the ground, stringy black hair plastered to her face as she gazed helplessly at the woman far ahead. They would not survive much more of this. Surely, the wind and rain would sweep them off their feet to be buried in the sliding mud around them.

And there-in a flash of light, they saw it. The gaping, empty maw in the mountain side. Weeks of travel finally at an end. With a piteous sound, she was dragged upwards once more by one of their party and they soldiered on, hope fueling their last bit of speed into the cover of rock.

Once inside, gratefully shielded by the cave, they paused-the others working to light torches. The lair was dark. Cold, echoing the roar of the storm outside. The girl pulled her dripping cloak around her, trying desperately to recover a bit of warmth from the heavy fabric. Their leader merely walked ahead, flame in hand, gazing wildly at the high, smooth walls.

Their meager light danced across the damp, living spikes about them, a heavy air settling in their bones of the ancient creature who once resided there, long since dead and gone.

They paused in the great expanse that was once the heart of it's home-once dancing in flames and life where it slept.

"Agnet."

The girl jumped and rushed to the side of her Mistress, shivering in the dim light. The woman before her pulled her cloak from her head, a bright jewel woven into her wet, sun-bleached hair. She turned to her, eyes blackened in the flickering light of her torch. She held out a lambskin satchel by it's strings.

"Begin the circle, apprentice." Her voice held a danger Agnet did not wish to test. Not now. Not yet. She took the satchel, bowed her head, and obediently retreated to the center of the cave.

As Agnet gingerly emptied the satchel, she watched the Mistress wander to an upper landing, her light disappearing behind a column. The girl turned, her eyes locking fearfully with two men sitting off to the right. Her brother, Liir, shifted in the light. Roe moved his hand to his sword. They in turn shared a glance with one another.

Agnet swallowed. Courage, child. Your strength cannot waver now.

...

Her robes dragged soppily behind her, the once white cloth clinging to her legs. Her feet bare, broken, bleeding-the pain numbed by cold.

It was no matter now. A trail well needed for this task, as were the others carried out in the days before. Insignificant sacrifices for the greater reward she was to reap. She stretched her arm, her torch lifting to better light the catacomb before her.

The Last had been here. She could feel him. Taste him in her every step-the blistering, fading light of his vehemence pulsing in every rock about her. Oh, what clarity-the fullness that once was the great beast-fire, heat, unadulterated might.

Oh, yes. She breathed in the stale, damp air. Power. So much power.

There, in the dark, she could feel them...light, steady throbs-hearty, so strong, and yet so small. So faint.

When she came upon the modest, twisted bed of branches, she nearly fell to her knees to weep. She would not. She would only smile upon the smooth, rounded memories in the light, rigid, eyelids lowered in sastisfaction.

...

Agnet shook in the fire light, hands stained-the wretched smell hanging on her from the symbols now smeared into the cave floor. Bile rose in her throat, staring at the clean, grisly relics she had only just placed about the ritual.

There were no words to be spoken for their wickedness. Her eyes trailed over the bleached objects-thin sharp ribs, rounded femurs cleaved of flesh-toothless jaws in the dark. No matter how this ended, the hollow, blank sockets of the four all too tiny skulls lined before the intricately placed remains would haunt her well into the hereafter. There was no forgiveness for this. For any of them.

The Mistress stood among them, drawing a thin, heavily engraved dagger from her sleeve. By her feet now laid a heavy, leather sack.

Agnet held back another wave of nausea. All had come to this.

"A gift of blood, " The Mistress lifted the blade, eyes turned towards the stones above. "Spilt from the pure in thy name. Bone, innocent, laid for thy endless hunger. Flesh of thy servant," She lifted her arm, bringing the weapon to the thick skin below her elbow. "Carved for thy worship upon the altar made," She bit the blade into her skin, cleanly shaving a thick, heavy strip from her arm. Agnet looked away. The Mistress held the dripping meat above the circle.

"Reverent before thy feet." It fell wetly among the red symbols. "And upon this altar, I command thee-ban, ban the barriers that none can pass, barrier of the Gods that none may break,"

The very ground seemed to shake with every boom of thunder outside the cave. Agnat whimpered, glancing desperately to Liir. He took her hand.

"Barrier of Heaven and Hell that none can change, barrier that no God can annul-come upon me, o' lord-" She lifted her hands towards the sky, "I am Helmach, dweller of Erebus, servant of all the Hells, I call upon thee, Astaroth, grant me all that I mean to claim."

A great gust blew through the cave, exstinguishing all but three torches. The demon was present. The demon would hear.

Helmach knelt near the edge of the circle, her hands reaching into the bag by her side. "I beg of thee, my lord..."

A cold, heavy handle was pressed into Agnet's shaking palm. Only one chance.

"With this, the last of these ancients..." Helmach lifted her hands, two large, dark, speckled eggs resting in her palms. Her lips curved, "The Last that hold this power, I beg you...feed upon my soul and grant me those of the Draconis."

Agnet stepped forward, the blade in her hand hidden by her cloak. Helmach stood, looming over the circle, eyes upwards-

She came to Helmach's side, and stretched a hand, palming one of the eggs. She and the Mistress lifted them, Helmach's eyes bright in malicious glee, going to split the creature's shell upon the circle-

With a cry, Agnet swung the sword and struck Helmach squarely in the back. The two rebels with her attacked the other faithfuls in turn, a fierce battle breaking within the cave. Helmach stumbled backwards, the egg in her hand falling from her fingers and smashing to the ground outside the circle.

"NO-! NO!" Helmach collapsed, the lifeless creature pooled blood by her knees-a roar sounding in the cave as Astaroth was swept from the catacombs-the ritual broken in an instant.

Agnet scrambled to hold onto the remaining egg, and tried to swing her weapon at the soreress once more. In a fury, Helmach snatched at the younger girl's arm and pulled herself upwards, driving Agnet back.

"GIVE IT TO ME!" Her eyes burned red, clawing for the life in Agnet's arms, a white heat sparking through her hand around Agnet's wrist. The girl cried out, fighting desperately to twist her arm free-

She slammed a heavy foot down upon the woman's broken toes-she howled, grip lessening, and Agnet tried to swing the sword again-

"Insolent WRETCH!" Helmach extended her hand, a great smoldering blue bolt shooting from her finger tips-the blast knocked Agnet yards away from the sorceress, pain bursting in her stomach.

The girl dropped the sword on impact and cradled the egg in her arms. The sorceress stood, the wound in her back knitting completely, hands glowing in the bleakness about her. Agnet looked frantically for help, only to see Roe fall to one of Helmach's men.

Agnet struggled to stand, feeling hot blood pouring down her side. Helmach advanced towards her, the glow about her hands intensifying. The girl hugged the egg to her chest, stepping backwards, praying, pleading-someone, anyone, please-

A body appeared between her and Helmach, sword at the ready, blood staining his face.

"Stay back, Witch!"

"It is a foolish boy..." Helmach lifted a hand. Agnet cried out, stepping forward.

"Liir, no!"

The two left of Helmach's men started after Agnet.

"RUN!

With one last glance to her brother, Agnet turned and fled the cave.

...

The storm raged even harder than it had been before, the rain coming down in sheets-obscuring all vision, all light-

Agnet ran through the trees, stumbling over rock and fallen logs-her lungs burned, her legs giving out with every step-her stomach molten with agony. Branches scratched her cheeks, stones and rubble cutting her feet, legs-

They were coming. She knew, they were coming, she couldn't stop, not now, not yet-Agnet stumbled over a boulder, her ankle screaming in pain, her stomach giving a stabbing pulse. Her vision blurred, her head swam...

But there-there, far off, above her, flickering through the thick curtains of water-

A light. Orange, dim, but blessedly real.

She hugged the precious lump to her chest, it's warmth pressing through the soaked cloth and into her skin-and while her heart hammered desperately within her breast, she could feel the little heart within the shell beating softly, '_Keep going. Keep going. Keep going_.'

Agnet stumbled further through the muck and downpour, her feet finding a thin and narrow path through the mountain-

She couldn't breathe anymore, shadows swam before her eyes as that orange light grew brighter, closer-and multiplied, in windows, flickering in archways of a tall, stone ediface, built into the mountain.

Her feet dragged her across a courtyard, stumbling over uneven stones to two large, wooden doors, She leaned bonelessly against them, and freed a hand to hammer on the wood.

Her broken voice called-but she couldn't find the strength to form words. She hit the wood over and over, pleading-there was a light-so many lights-someone had to be there-someone had to help-

She fell to her knees as the door swung open, and she clutched the bundle in her arms tightly, refusing to let it slip from her grasp. Her blurry eyes turned to a figure standing above her, and she nearly wept in relief.

"What on Earth-?" His voice seemed far away, and she reached for him, as if to pull it back from fading. She barely felt the strong hand take hers, and attempt to pull her up.

"Ple.." Agnet tried to speak, leaning heavily on the body heaving her to. "..he...hel.."

He called out around her, but he seemed to be fading away again. Agnet felt more hands on her soon after, but she refused to give up the lump in her arms. Everything was fading..everything was dark...

...

"-Brother Gilbert! Brother Gilbert, come quickly-!"

The Friar, having finally gotten to sleep with all of the noise of the storm, jumped awake at his door being slammed open, nearly tumbling from his bed in doing so.

Friar Peter stood in his doorway, candle in hand, duly shaken. Gilbert blinked anxiously-rising as he saw his nightclothes stained in red.

"What-what is it, what's happened, Peter-?"

"I don't know-come, come-" He turned, rushing into the hallway, Gilbert at his heels. "Brother Josep awoke to banging on the southern doors, and-there was a woman there-she's hurt, badly," Peter barreled through the doors leading to the south range, where against one of the far walls, a group of Friars were clustered. The strange woman was laid across a table, linen balled under her head. Blood pooled on the stone floor below her.

"I've sent for the healers, but-..." He paused, turning to him, a ways away from the woman in question. Gilbert nodded, and moved into the crowd, stepping up beside the injured woman.

Heavenly Father keep her, she was still a girl. The healer stood beside her, examining a large, angry wound in her side. Her arms were crossed over her chest, hugging a bundle of cloth. Her breaths were staggering, and she was blinking heavily. Gilbert lifted a hand and gently touched her head.

"My child...you are safe here." She seemed to hear him, her eyes briefly searching for his face. "Can you speak..?"

The girl struggled to do so, a weak sound escaping her. The healer looked up from her body, his mouth set in a grim line.

"The wound is deep. She has bled far too much, Brother Gilbert."

Gilbert nodded, stroking her sodden hair. "Can you tell me your name, child?"

"..Ag..Agn.." She let another sound, one more keening than the last.

"Shh.." He tried to sooth her and placed his other hand on her arm. "You will be at peace, child. Rest...there is no more needed of you now."

Gilbert nearly jumped when her hand shot out and latched onto his. Her eyes stared at him, suddenly clear, wide, fearful.

"..Ta..take it."

"What is it, child, what do you.."

She shifted the bundle in her arms, pushing it towards him.

"..keep it.." The girl gazed at him, pleading, desperate. Gilbert uncertainly touched the bundle, and with a look to her, lifted it into his arms. It was hard. Warm.

"Safe.."

He looked at her again, opening his mouth to inquire-when she drew one last hard breath. Her eyes drifted, her chest stilled, and her hands laid limp on her chest.

Gilbert watched as the healer gently closed her eyes and shifted the weighty object in his arms. Peter came to his side and stared at it.

"...what could be so important to her, Brother Gilbert..?"

Gilbert turned his gaze to his arms, and with great care, removed the folds of soaking cloth.

"What on earth is-.."

Gilbert could only stare, his mouth agape, at the bespotted shell in his hands. The candle light dancing across it's shining surface, the heat from it seeping into his palms. It couldn't be. It was impossible. He gently ran his fingers over it, pausing, feeling...

Then he felt it.

A light flutter. A shift. _A heartbeat_.

...

_He saw flames. Flames, flickering, bold, lively and fierce-_

_Dancing against a smooth, living wall, surrounded by pillars and dripping spikes-no..no, they were gone-the fires had long gone out, it was only cold, only damp, only death-_

_Everywhere, reminders, and yet nothing left behind-only space, emptiness and hurt-_

_Their keeper had long been gone, faded into a velvet sky, and twinkling lights, old and far away-_

_A mass of thick, black hair, drenched in rain-a flash of red, spilling, coating rock, mud, washed away in a torrent of hellish waters-_

_Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat._

_Strong, steady, young, alive-glowing, orange, red-_

_Still alive, still alive, still alive..._

_Red. Red eyes, burning, blazing-terror, might, power-terrifying power-_

_Circles and markings in red, so much red, all red-_

_Black hair, tangling in branches, whipping through water and muck-red, red, red-_

_'Keep going, keep going, keep going-'_

_Orange light. Hope. Pulsing. Beating. Beat. Beat. Beat. _

_And then it let go. All let go, and there was no more red. No more pain. No more running, or water, or trees-all white, and warm...a cool, gentle voice, one last word, one last prayer, while reaching for all that peace and goodbyes-_

_'Astarte, blessed and watchful...'_

_A bright orange flash there, in the dark, in the great pane of black over their heads. _

_'SHE will bring their heavens down around them...'_

_Burning brighter than any other in their cluster of glittering white. _

_'Let them not be forsaken..."_

_The clouds split, his light, his youngest, brightest light, piercing through the bleak, heavy grey above._

_'Let them be saved...'_

_He falls like a comet, wings incased in flesh, eyes knew and unseeing, heavy in spirit still, drawn down, called down, down, down, down..._

_'Let them be saved...'_

_New lungs take their first breath, bursting, burning, fires extinguished and ignited anew, ancient, battered, rembered-remembered-_

_The ground splits-cratered-exploding in rock and dirt-_

_'To the stars, Bowen. To the stars-'_

...

"-GUH-!" Thunder shakes the stones around him, the lightening fading in a blink. His chest heaved, his body cold and sweating. The heavy rains outside seemed to roar inside the walls, and he pants, shaking, a sheet tangled about his legs, leaning on his hands.

...a dream. All a dream. A crack of thunder made him jump again, and he looked anxiously towards the high window in his chamber.

"Bowen..?" A soft hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to look into his wife's concerned face.

Bowen finally let a sigh and gently covered her hand with his.

"Did you have another dream." Kara sat up fully, her hand moving to drape across his shoulders.

Bowen wiped his face, nodding, and tried to will his heart from beating out of his chest. His wife moved closer, her other hand wrapping around his forearm.

"And here I was hoping to finally have a good night's sleep." His mouth quirked, his breath evening out at last. Kara squeezed his arm. He blamed the season. The day.

"As was I."

Silence settled between them. They both felt pain this time of year, but Bowen...his dreams had been fitful for some time.

"Tell me what you dreamt."

"...Two years, Kara." He murmered, staring holes into a bedpost. "Two blasted years, and I can't-..."

"I know, Bowen." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I do not think I will ever stop missing him."

Bowen swallowed thickly, listening to the rain pelt outside. He would never voice it, not even in the quiet privacy they shared. But neither would he. Not a day went by when he didn't think of him. Felt his absence.

This day was meant to be one of celebration. Bowen indulged his people in their want to rejoice, personally planning a week long festival in honor of their revolution against Einon. He made merry, joined his rabble in drink and music. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to them to be happy. But at night, his heart ate away at him-in night terrors and dark dreams. Many never made sense, as this last one didn't, but he knew-always knew-they were about him. Since their victory, no new monarch had been appointed. Many, if not all the townspeople, implored Bowen to pick up the crown for his own. He did not, but he stayed on as a Knight, a stewart, and led these people in honor of the code. Of Draco.

Draco.

Bowen settled back into bed with Kara, his arm across her back, her head in the crook of his shoulder. 'It will pass with time', she had told him. Many times.

How much time needed to pass? How long until the hatred he felt for himself for swinging that axe would subside?

How many nights would he wake like this, his chest thudding painfully, haunted by memories and images he did not understand?

In his heart of hearts, something told him they meant something. Truly meant something, and it was all more frustrating that he could not figure them at all.

Something was coming.

And Bowen knew he was not ready for it.

...

It was some hours later, the peek of morning light obscured by the still hanging couds, that a guard, Simon by name, was making his rounds about the castle. All was still dark, dark as night as far as he was concerned. He was cold and wretchedly miserable.

While the thunder had since lessened, the rain was still coming down as heavy as ever.

Simon sighed heavily, trudging across the long wall, staring out into the abyssmal half-night. He wanted nothing more than to retreat inside the warmer castle walls, with some hot water and bread, beside the kitchen fires. The idea was becoming so tempting that he very nearly turned tail and headed in. Who in their right mind would be out in this mess anyway? Enemy or no?

Just as he was about to put his plan into action, he saw something moving out in the storm. He stopped and squinted through the rain, trying to make heads or tails of it.

It was small, white-possibly a deer or other some such animal. He nearly paid it no mind until he noticed it was coming closer. It was headed in a staggering but determind line for the castle. Simon moved to the edge of the wall and peered out in earnest, wiping water from his face. It came closer.

It was a man.

Anxiously, he scanned the area for any other movement, mouth open to sound the call but-upon further inspection, he saw no one. Not a soul.

The man was alone-alone in this hellish weather, and from the looks of things-he may have been hurt.

Rushing to the nearest tower, Simon alerted two other guards on duty, who in turn called to the men below them by the gate.

Simon rushed down to them, and by the time he reached them, the door was being pulled open.

The guards demanded of the oncoming stranger to state his business. He was a mature man, dressed in nothing but light breeches and a linen shirt. Shoeless, weaponless. His grey-dusted hair hanging around his pale face.

He reached the door at last. They asked of him again.

He promptly collapsed.

...

Bowen headed brusquely down the stone stairs, pulling an arm through the sleeve of his shirt-he barely nodded to the man who handed off his belt and sword, half-listening to the guard trailing beside him.

"-And he just fell apart, sir-he's asking for you by name sir, he doesn't seem dangerous, but-"

"Out of the way-" Bowen waved a few men out of his path as he marched into the courtyard and out into the rain. He could see his men on the ground with the newcommer, his teeth on edge. What if this was it. What if all these dreams led to this-a war, a plague-whoever this man was, he knew-he just knew-it tied everything together.

He ran half the way over to the fallen man and gazed down at him.

"I am Sir Bowen. What business do you have with me."

His men raised the half-dazed stranger to a sitting position, and he blearily opened his eyes at the knight. Their color-their bright, strange color-he had seen it only once before, and not in the eyes of any man.

The stranger seemed to try and reach for him, words dying on his tongue. Bowen kneeled beside him without a thought and reached for his arm.

"Who are you."

A weak hand lifted and covered his, the man's face staring up at him, unabashed, open with marvel and shock.

"...who are you..?"

The other blinked slowly, mouth parting in awe.

"...Bowen."

He then fainted dead away.

Bowen couldn't breathe. That voice. He would know that voice anywhere-a deep, heavy timbre he never thought he would hear with his own ears again, in this life or the next. The knight shot forward and cradled the man's head under his, lifting him from the ground and his other men. He hovered, mouth open. It's not possible. It wasn't possible.

"..Draco..?"


	2. Only Questions

Winds howled through the lofty, darkened walls of her chambers. The heavy draperies disturbed in the gusts, a wisp of dust lifting from them, floating upon the air.

The soft, velveted bench creaked as she sat before her vanity, the image in the clouded glass glaring back at her in dark, furious despair. Long, sharp fingers lifted to touch the jewel resting on her throat, twisting around a thin strand of hair left there from removing it hours earlier.

A red trail had led them to the monastary, onto so much hollowed rock and ground she could not dare to follow. It's very presence had left her skin sick and burning, just at the sight of it's two modest spires.

With a thought, she had returned here, leaving her injured men behind. Worthless. Disgusting.

The child had been clever. She conceded that. To tie herself so close to the sorceress, gained her wisdom and trust with her deep, wounded eyes, her earnest little mouth and pink cheeks. Her weakness for corruption had swayed her to take the girl on.

Her lip curled.

This had not been forseen. This had not been woven in the intricate strands of prophecy the priest had given her. A hoarse whimper echoed from the wall behind her, skin shuffling on the rough floor. Her nails drummed the surface of her vanity, a deep red stain under them-the cuffs of her sleeves equally sullied. Upon her return, she made her displeasure very clear with him.

Helmach glanced into the mirror, eyeing the quaking body near her chamber door, flanked by soldiers in darkened armor.

"Does it live."

"..y-yes.."

"Does it lay within their walls."

"It d-does.."

She turned, back straight, haloed in the creeping light through her window.

"I cannot set foot upon their sanctuary, but if I must...I shall suffer them my fury, and _defile_ every stone concealing what is rightfully mine." She stood, robes swishing as she walked steadily towards the man on the ground. He cringed as she came closer, hearing the drag of cloth.

"But if what you have said is truth, Ieon..." She lifted a hand, gently touching his bruised, bare scalp, her nails threateningly caressing the skin. "This being, tumbled from the sky."

She had felt it hit the Earth, breaking the crust in a bolt of light and fire. It had struck her to her very soul, molten and white, the sinstral there churning at it's purity-so much so she had spilt bile there on the forest floor.

The priest nodded painfully, quivering beneath her hand.

"...he has come...in the name of the watchful one, an-and all those who p-perished before him, lost to myth and legend..." He swallowed, choking on his breath. "Bu-burdened...with flesh and body.."

Helmach kneeled, her other hand taking the man's chin in a steely grasp, nails biting into his jaw. "Can he be killed."

"Dh-gh..." He swallowed. The sorceress gave his head a hard jerk. "Guh-he! He is protected...by the blessed ones. He holds the power of the Draconis...but..but his ignorance..could mean his death."

Helmach smiled, tilting the priest's head upwards and into the light. He keened piteously, streaks of red still pouring down his cheeks, the bright angry scratches only just beginning to cake. She stared in the empty, gutted mess that once held two gaily shining blue eyes.

"Then facilitate I shall...and it will be his blood to mark my altar, and his bones from which the flesh shall be cleaved."

...

A hiss of hushed, calculated voices wavered in the stone room. That, and the absent drizzling outside were the only sounds around them. Every so often, glass clicked mutely together-deft hands retriving a vial and replacing it with care.

A muted rustle of cloth. A distracted murmur.

He had been stripped of his sodden clothing upon being brought to the small chamber. Dirt and grass carefully wiped from his skin, clumsy fingers tangled through his hair to rid them of twig and leaf. A long, clean tunic wrapped about him now, wrinkled linens pulled over his still form.

A light sheen of sweat upon his brow.

Beads resting there, like rounded scales, reflecting the dull, blueish light of early, clouded afternoon through the window beside them.

A mockery.

"Are you certain?" Kara grasped his arm, face ashen.

"Of course not." Bowen bit quietly, looking away from the scene before him. His wife shifted, eyes similarily trained on the stranger.

"...It's mad." Bowen turned, not quite looking at Kara. "It's impossible."

"Tell me what you saw, Bowen." She placed her hands on his arms, brow pinched. "What could make you even think it."

The body in the room made a small sound in his sleep. Bowen could not help but gaze upon him again, teeth clenched painfully.

"...He said my name, Kara." He watched as a healer placed a damp cloth across the man's head. "In his _voice_. I would know it anywhere, but..."

"It has been an age since we have heard him speak, Bowen." Kara moved her hands to his shoulders. "Your mind could be tricking you."

"I know it. But-his eyes, Kara..." The knight finally looked into her face. "That is no trick, no-hopeful memory. No man has ever had such eyes."

"My Lord."

Bowen turned to find a healer standing beside them, wiping his hands on a dirtied cloth.

"Well?"

"He no longer burns with fever, though he may still be very weak."

"How weak? He will live, will he not?" Kara worried her lip, watching as the healers gathered their supplies.

Bowen watched the man in question, eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"I believe he shall live, yes. I can do no more while he rests, but he should wake at any time." Kara quietly thanked him, and Bowen brushed past the man, standing some feet away from the stranger.

His face was peaceful, though pale and all too still. His arms laid gently across his stomach, hands folded, the skin rosy where a patch of leeches had been placed. In the greyish light, Bowen took a moment to truly look at him. His hair was greying, splayed by his neck and shoulders-a beard stretching over his chin and upper lip. Deep creases in the eyes and forehead. His features were strong, his shoulders broad. Strength seemed engraved in him, even as he slept.

Like the creature he once knew so well.

"A nursemaid will sit with him." He hadn't heard Kara come up beside him. "For when he wakes."

Bowen nodded, his eyes never leaving the prone body before him, burning with questions and helplessness. It was impossible, his mind screamed for the hundredth time. Draco was gone. Dead, with the last of his brethren, nestled safely in the sky, never to be seen by man again. But in his mind, he saw the man's face there, in the dark and rain-boring into him without abandon, knowing, trusting-those bright yellow eyes seeming to glow as they once did in a face of hard, orange scales.

Bowen had to know. He turned to his wife, mouth parted, wavering determination in his face.

"You should stay with him." Kara placed a hand on his shoulder, and he paused. "...if it is true..you will be the first he would want to see."

The Knight gazed into her face, his reserve still wavering. At last, he covered her hand with his, left a gentle kiss on her temple, and crossed the space to the low bed beside them.

Kara watched as the knight pulled a chair close to the bedside and resolutely took his place there. She knew she should implore him to come back to bed, to catch a few hours of sleep for the ones they had lost this night before. To rest his mind and heart, to fall away and leave his worries.

But she would not. With a weak smile, she turned and left the chamber, hope mingled with fear rising in her chest. Whatever awful magic this was, if it truly did turn out to be their friend, in a foreign form, appearing after what felt like an eternity, if this, along with Bowen's terrible dreams, was a sign of things to come...

Kara paused, gazing out a window onto the moor, the sky lightening as the rain lessened with the day. She had ignored the warnings in her mind whenever her husband woke at night, cold with sweat. Brushed them away for his sake, hoping against hope that they were merely dreams. But Kara knew, always knew, that something was coming. Whatever tidings lay before them, whatever battles they were meant to face, they would do just that. Face them, head on, swords held high, just as they had before.

Together.

"My Lady!"

Kara turned, startled from her thoughts, a page rushing towards her, stumbling into a bow.

"What-what's happened now?"

"A mess'er just arrived, asking for you-and the Lord-he says it's urgent-"

"Who is it? What's this about?"

"He'll only speak with you and the Lord, my Lady-it's from the Monastary, in the mountains. Friar Peter, ma'am-an urgent message from Brother Gilbert."


	3. Dreams

He was so still.

So very still. Minutes, an hour at most, passed between them. And he was still. Clouds darkened again with the threat of rain, light dimming, whitish rays gleaming over the ash and silver strands of hair across the pillow. His chest rose and fell with his silent breathing, his hands never moving, his feet never restless.

Bowen shifted in his chair, the creak a loud, terrible echo in the silence. The nursemaid in the corner gave a small snore.

He had sat this vigil once before. And even then, the great beast had been so still. His tail never wavered, his body never rolled. He merely laid there, curled beneath the stars, as the Knight watched over him for any other sign of pain or, perhaps, troubled dreams.

Did Dragons dream? He had wondered then. He had wondered in the days after, in their travels, his feet always seeming to carry him to where the Dragon slept. And he would sit with him, for hours, before being carried away by sleep himself. Draco never mentioned it again after that first fitful night, but his eyes always shown warmth when he found him leaning against his curled wing or forearm in the morning light. He was almost certain they didn't dream.

He envied that.

Perhaps Draco dreamt now. Of course, that begged the question. Was it possible this stranger could be Draco.

Bowen wiped the tiredness from his eyes and sighed at the floor between his feet. He had begun to think his nightmares had finally driven him completely mad. It was entirely possible. Night after night of seeing the creature in his dreams, it was only natural he would jump to conclusions like this. There were so many questions pitching about his mind, he felt as if his skull might burst from them.

For now, he could only wait. Stewing, until this man opened his eyes.

"God damn the man." Bowen leaned over his knees and rubbed his forehead. "I wouldn't be surprised if it _is_ you, Draco." He lifted his eyes to the quiet face.

"You know why? Only _you_ could be this infuriating." A wry smile pulled at his lips. "Honestly. You_ would _choose _now_ to come back, wouldn't you. Here the lot of us are, finally adjusting to a world without Einon, without-imminent evil lurking over the horizon. Without dragons."

...He smiled at the floor, humorlessly, giving a gentle scoff.

"Without you."

He had entered their lives for such a short time..._his _life. And still, he had left such a raw, bleeding hole in his heart that seemed to hemorrage every time he spoke his name.

"...I often, uh.." He cleared his throat, finally looking at the man again. "...tried to speak with you. Pray, I suppose. I'm not certain if human prayers are meant to reach dragon heaven."

He waited. The chest only rose and fell.

"..But I tried, regardless. I still wonder if I imagined those words you spoke to me, when you...left us." Bowen looked away again. He wasn't certain why he could not stop talking, but the words fell so easily from his mouth. He needed to pour them away, so much he had wanted to voice, but couldn't find the will to do so.

"..They helped. If you care to know." He inched forwards in his seat. "They did. I was..." He swallowed again, "I am..lost. Most of the time. These people, all of them, they-they look to me. I don't understand it. I didn't lead them into their revolution, not really-it was Kara that kept that flame alive. Not me."

So many nights, Bowen had wandered the freezing walls of this fortress, aimless, hopeless-he had lost his heart for nurture many years ago. How was he meant to lead anyone if he could not make an honest path for himself? But in his most somber hour, Bowen's steps would lead him into the dewey chill of night, and he would bare his face to the sky. There, in all that night, within that gentle cluster of stars, one would shine the brightest. As if beckoning to him. Reaching down from it's perch and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Bowen drew strength from those stars. The light would fortify his soul, and he would soldier on into the days ahead, full of hope.

"There are no words to thank you, Draco." His gaze dropped from the man's face, settling on his still gently moving chest. "I owe you more..than I could ever tell you."

He never had the chance to tell him. With his damnedable pride, he never would. A familiar burning filled his eyes, and he grit his teeth.

"...I only hoped you co.." He sucked in a sharp breath, harshly wiping a cheek. "That you could forgive me." He finally turned his eyes to the man's face once more. "It is one thing I can never grant myself. And I am sick to my bones with it."

With himself. He sighed to the ceiling, his frustration mounting on the churning emotions in his breast. He found the will to smile, ruefully, a pathetic chuckle escaping his mouth.

"What am I even doing." He shook his head at the still form. "Finally time to truly speak with you-if it _is_ you-and you haven't even heard a word I've said."

The man only breathed. The light playing across his face, gentle in it's beams, the bright silver strands of his hair seemingly glowing. Bowen smiled, and tucked his head into his arms, his hands fisted over the back of his head. "I've gone completely 'round the bend and back."

A gust blew in through the window-the smell of wet earth on it's back, rustling the linen draping off the bedside. It whistled past Bowen's ears, and there, in the midst of it, he heard it. Soft, weak-a whisper, a leak of breath.

_'B'wen.'_

Bowen's head shot up from between his arms, his lips parted, eyes wide as she searched out the face laying beside him. He was still, quiet, unmoving. His hands were still laid flat, his legs unbothered, bedding unmussed. All was the same..but for his head. The man had turned his face, barely a fraction, towards the knight at his bedside. His mouth was parted. His breath less deep.

Bowen held his breath. Then, he moved foward, crouching on the floor, resting his hands on the edge of the low bed, staring at the man, radiating anxiety. Had he heard? Had he been listening?

"...Draco?"

The door swung open with a groan, "My Lord."

Bowen looked up from his place on the floor and abruptly stood, eyes darting around the the room. "Yes, what is it now."

"Lady Kara, sir, she's-asking for you. There's a mess'er from Brother Gilbert, sir, it's-extremely urgent, sir."

Bowen frowned, and with one last look to the stranger, he slipped out of the room after the page.

...

_Sharpened, curved, bleached nails, thinning to such a sharp point, they vanish against the light.. _

_They twitch, they curl, floating over a smooth, hard, sphere. _

_Red. Hard, bright red, irises bloody, pupils deep, fiery-_

_She can feel it. But she cannot find it._

...

Bowen stared at the parchment in his hand, his eyes roaming words over and over. Kara shifted beside him, a hand to her mouth, nail between her teeth. Brother Peter sat near her, clutching a mug of water.

It took everything not to nod off. Peter had ridden hard through the night and morning to arrive as soon as he did. While he knew the stories, eagerly listened as Brother Gilbert retold the tale of the land's liberation hundreds of times, personally oversaw the tapestries being woven in a dragon's honor, he never expected the growing legend to become so...tangibly real. He shakily brought the mug to his lips. Part of him didn't want to believe the egg belonged to the lost creatures.

But what else could it be?

...

_It was there. There, through stone and symbol she could not reach-could not break, nor touch, even with cold, lifeless bleeding eyes-_

_Fury burned, burned, hot, liquid, bursting like the core of a star-_

_Stars-_

_**But you. Where are you hiding, beast**__. _

_The stone was gone. _

...

"What did the girl say."

Peter swallowed.

"She wasn't able. Her injuries were far too deep, she died moments after we brought her inside. Just before she passed, she only said...'keep it safe'. "

Bowen lifted his eyes from the parchment, turning to find his wife. Kara stared back, eyes wide, running the pad of her thumb over a now short and jagged nail.

Doubts swirled in her mind. It couldn't be. A stone, perhaps, another monster's brood, something fashioned by the hands of men as some cruel joke.

But what if it wasn't.

...

_Hurtling over ridges, hills, grottos, rock-through impossibly high branches, rolling up, up up, up-_

_Thatched rooftops, a fisherman's line, bales and bales of soaking hay, apples picked for the season dripping with rain-children's laughter-splashes of mud-a woman smiling-_

_**Wretched, worthless-squirming piles of flesh and putrid feeling**__-_

_A wide yellow moor, muddied, limp, drumming from the clouds, patter, patter, patter-_

...

"It cannot be coincidence, Kara."

Kara touched his hands, feeling the paper between his fingers. His grip was cold. He was shaking. So was she.

"It cannot be coincidence..." The words felt heavy on his tongue. For a moment, he had allowed himself to believe it was some form of miracle, staring at the pale body on the bed.

Something far more sinister pulled at his heart now. Had evil brought him back. Or something more.

...

_Leagues of trees, more villages, scattered, washed in rain, faces, so many faces, holding lanterns against the raging sky-_

_**Flesh to render, sacks of filth and bile, maggots, every one of them, maggots-**_

_There, stretching, familiar spires and stone-wooden doors-shining armor and wielding blades glint in the dimming overcast-_

...

The knight closed his eyes. "What must I do."

...

_A hall-a stone archway-soft footfalls, calling voices-the cling of silver and gold-up, up, up, over steps and mortar-_

_His heart clenches, breath stolen from him, those red, awful orbs seeking, searching, winding-_

_There. There. There. _

_Teeth bare, awful, crimson filling all there is in his aching mind, searing his very soul-_

_**Found you**__. _

...

"We must be ready, Bowen." Her fingers graced his cheeks, gentle, resolute. He opened his eyes. "I cannot claim to understand what is happening, but all that matters...is that we stand firm, together."

A hardness had crept into her eyes, the same he had seen what felt so long ago. Her fiery hair whipping about her shoulders, knuckles white about the stems of her axes.

Valor. Strength. Truth.

"If he truly has returned," Her hands settled on his shoulders. "Then we must help him."

"-My Lord!"

Peter's mug clattered to the floor, the friar having been straining to hear the knight and his wife, startled as a guard came rushing into the hall.

"Sir Bowen-! Come quickly!"

"What, what is-"

A hallowed sound pierced the air, haggard, fearful, in pain-the very ground seeming to quake with it. Another followed, roaring in the castle walls-

Bowen rushed from the hall, his wife at his heels, Peter left in their wake, lost, staring at the crumpled bit of parchment, forgotten on the ground.


	4. Upon the Precipice

Their footsteps thundered up the stone steps, the sound ringing in Bowen's ears, as the guard rambled on beside him, fighting to catch his breath.

He had begun thrashing in his sleep, wildly, the nursemaid awakened by the sound. She had tried to rouse him, then to hold him to the straw, but to no avail. She cried for help, pages rushing to her aid, a number of guards pouring in to restrain him as his arms struck the air-

His strength was enormous, flinging three of them to the ground, as if fighting for his very life. It was only after the guard had come to fetch Bowen that he had started screaming-_screaming_, as if his body was being rendered in twain.

Bowen flew down the halls, coming to the small chamber, only to find his men crumpled on the floor and the bed vacant. Kara brushed past him, sinking to the ground, practically shaking a half-concious guard awake, demanding what he saw. Bowen twisted in the hall, panic surging, unable to breathe.

"Draco?"

Armor struck the ground behind him, Kara yanking the man to a sitting position.

"Where did he go?"

The man groaned, eyelids fluttering.

"DRACO!"

She shook him again, "Where!"

"Th..there-" The guard pointed down a corridor, fighting for coherency. Bowen turned to him, "There, he went that way, up the-"

Bowen broke into a run and scrambled up the stairs, two at once, his scabbard scraping loudly across the stones.

"Draco!" He skid into a hallway, whipping wildly, "Draco?"

A few shaken pages and maids who had flattened against the walls pointed him towards an archway. Bowen sprinted out onto a landing, the rain coating him instantaneously. He turned, finding a stairwell, and hurried up them as well, calling the dragon's name into the storm.

His heart hammered to break his chest, ice coiling in his stomach, _please, don't, please_-

Bowen stumbled onto the landing of the tower, clawing himself to his feet, eyes searching, frantic-

_Oh, Lord_.

The man stood upon the edge, between two merlons, his back to the knight. There was blood on his shoulder, an angry gash beneath his scalp. He shook, arms dangling at his sides, gazing down, down, down into the courtyard of the outer castle.

Thunder cracked above their heads. Bowen took a step forward, hand outstretched, pain blooming in his chest as he tried to breathe.

"Draco.."

_Draco_.

The man turned, almost too sharply, teetering from his perch. He was cold-so cold-rain pelting near sideways against his body. He peered through the downpour at the dark clad figure behind him, hair sticking to his face-_his face, his eyes, his __**skin**_-his skin prickled and hurt-_blessed all, everything hurt so badly_-

He stared at the fingers stretched towards him, the arm, the shoulder-the face. He knew this man. He knew him, felt him at his core, all blue eyes and scarred cheek. He was the last he had seen on this earth-the very last-

Was the sky still dark? The stars did not shine here, not now-it was all wrong. So wrong, he had left this life, tiredly, thankfully, in a blessedly short wave of pain. But not here. No, it wasn't here-

Yellow eyes turned and looked again to the far-away ground, encased in walls of stone. It was there. Bound and hurting, there, across the stones. How could he have moved so far away from that place? Nothing was right. Death had released him. The man leaned towards the edge, at that space on the cold stone. Hadn't it?

Bowen stepped forward, pulse jumping as the man leaned too far over the lip. "Wait-stop."

_'You are my friend.'_

That same desperate gravel, the same painful sound. A body rigid between bursts of fire. An axe clattering to the ground.

_'Without you..what do we do.'_

His hand lifted to his chest, his fingers-_thin, fleshy, un-clawed_-pressing over his heart.

_'Where do we turn.' _

Yellow eyes slowly turned to gaze upon the knight. Bowen stood, gaze pleading, another boom of thunder crashing overhead.

_Beat. Beat. Beat. _

"Is this a dream..?" His voice was soft, his throat torn. Bowen started, unsure if he heard him speak, or if he had only imagined it. The man's fingers dug into his chest. "Is this a dream?"

"..No." He stepped forward again, slowly. "No-this is no dream." The knight touched his own chest, "I am here, just as you are, I swear it!"

The man's eyes searched his face, and flicked to the open air before him, to the sky and beyond. "...have I been condemned-have I not truly paid for my sins?"

"You are not condemned!" Bowen moved again, fierce, standing close enough to touch him, but he does not dare, not yet. "I saw you! I saw you take your place with them, with my own eyes, Draco, you were free!"

The man remained, shivering in the gale. Bowen swallowed.

"I don't-I do not know...what has returned you to us, or why, but you are here. Alive, just as I am. You are here, do you understand?" His heart leapt as those all too yellow eyes met with his. He nodded his head towards the man, "You are _here_. With _me_."

Draco quaked as the rain became all too real upon his skin. The thunder rumbled, the sound moving through his unfamiliar bones. The thin cloth over his body sodden, uncomfortable, freezing every inch of him. He lifted his hand, reaching for Bowen's-and he caught his fingers, chilly, but solid. Whole. Strong. There was no lie within Bowen's eyes. He was no figment about to disolve into the ether, leaving him to some cruel Hell. Warmth bloomed in his hand, and clarity broke through at last.

"Bowen.." Draco stepped down from the ledge. Knees buckled, unable to hold his tired body, but the Knight was there to catch him, an arm wrapping securely around his all too small body. "Bowen," He tried again, his throat still ripped through, clinging desperately to the man, his friend, his brother.

Bowen near collapsed, a wild sound leaving him, the weight of the once-dragon pushing him to his knees. Draco sagged against his chest, and Bowen gripped his shoulder, his chin against his forehead. "I have you.."

Draco panted, utterly drained, sinking against the warmth around him, Bowen's name on his lips. He didn't hear the others clamoring noisily up the stairs behind them, his vision growing hazy, darkness tunneling his eyes. Only Bowen's voice, drifting above him, anchoring the entire world.

"I have you, Draco..."

_I have you_.

...

Waves beat mercilessly against smooth, salt-ground stone, the white bluff stretching far above the temptestuous sea. The white-capped bay roared far below, echoing in the hollow, redstone walls built high upon the cliff.

Six men kneeled, heads bowed before an altar, staffs in hand, golden hilted swords tied securely to their waists-silent and awed before the voice that had only just retreated once more into the grey-black skies. One of them lifted his gaze at last, drying his cheeks of astonished tears, the others following slowly after.

So it was commanded, it would be done. There was no time to linger.

They silently trailed out into the rain, cowls pulled neatly over their heads, unheeded, trapsing muddy footprints towards the mouth of the far-away forest, determination set within their hearts.

They who would answer the call, they who served the blessed, they who worshiped an ancientness far older, far greater than any mortal man could dream of achieving in this lifetime or any to follow.

The torches still burned within those walls, casting shadows upon the floors-the flickering, orange light dancing across the many carved effigies-all shining in silver and gold, a chronical of those who had long passed. Reverent, to those great creatures who once soared the heavens, now one with them, sworn to keep an everlasting vigil over man, in life and in death, through all his trials of this world and the next.

...

Bowen himself had carried the limp body of his friend down from the tower, with the help of another guard. The bed had been righted where Draco had nearly torn the bedding to shreds in his terror, and his sopping tunic was quickly replaced. Bowen had been more than reluctant to leave his side, the man's hand still desperately fisted in his shirt as he slept. The healers who had come to the aid of his guards swiftly changed their attentions to Draco shortly after their return. And now, Bowen stood, hovering near the bed, watching as they worked, Kara at his side.

They watched the calmed, pale face of their friend. There was no question in his mind now. Questions still burned them both, but for now, they simply looked on in silent awe. Draco had returned, in foreign flesh.

"We need respond to Brother Gilbert." Kara's voice was faint. Though she herself had not seen nor heard what had gone on between them, Bowen's conviction was enough to convince her.

Bowen frowned, watching as a healer gingerly dabbed the still bleeding cut at Draco's hairline. It occured to him, strangely, that he had never seen the dragon bleed. It disturbed him.

Kara turned to her husband. "What should we tell him?"

"...Everything." The knight tore his eyes from Draco, "I will find Brother Peter. Gilbert should know-he may have some idea about all this...at the very least, we will need his help."

Kara nodded, gaze wandering back to Draco. Bowen looked again, aching, everything within him battling not to leave this room.

"..I'll stay with him." Kara touched his arm, mustering a smile. "Perhaps he will rest more soundly now."

Bowen took her hand in his, fingers lacing gratefully.

"And if he wakes.."

He pressed a kiss to her palm. She would call.

"I will be quick."

She smiled.

"I know."

With a lingering kiss upon her lips, Bowen turned and hastened from the room. Kara looked after him a moment, then moved closer to the bedside. Though circumstances muddy, and times ahead looking all too grave...

Kara could not stop the rising elation in her chest. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she smiled, watching his peaceful breathing. All the while, swearing she could hear the steady beat of his heart.


End file.
